Sunday, December 26, 2010

Shimmering

A Christmas Eve MeditationFriday Evening, December 24, 2010

1.

There once was a young man—full of sincerity and idealism—who felt the call to preach God’s challenge and consolation to the world. So he did what young men did in those days—and he went into the deep woods and apprenticed himself to the elders. The elders trained him well and, when they felt he was ready, they laid hands on him, blessed him and sent him out to preach God’s challenge and consolation.

And this is what the young man did: Every day he would enter a town just before noon, when the market squares were most crowded. And he’d cry out: “Does anyone want to hear about God’s challenge and consolation?” Always there would be someone, an elder, who would step forward and say: “Yes, we will hear you speak on this topic.” And the elder would take the young man to his house and, after the supper meal, some people would gather. But not many. And a few would come late, and others would leave early; and the young man sensed they were listening to him only out of duty, without real interest. So after each session, he’d go back to his lodging feeling kind of empty, discouraged, and thinking that these surely were not the people to whom he’d been called to minister.

So it went on: for some time. Each day the cycle would repeat itself. He’d go into a town, cry out, ask if anyone was interested in hearing about God’s challenge and consolation. Always an elder would step forward and take the young man to his house; and each night a small group would gather, some would arrive late and others leave early. They’d listen to him politely, engage him with a few routine questions; and he’d leave feeling empty and discouraged.

Until one day, the young man entered a town just as he always did, cried out just as he always did, and an elder stepped forward just as an elder always did. But this time, things were different. Instead of taking him to his house, the elder took the young man to the town square where a platform had been erected and a large number of seats set up. That evening, the whole square filled with people and no one arrived late, and no one left early, and they listened to him intently and engaged him in deep questions long into the night.
Well, the young man went back to his lodging that night filled with energy; and all the next day, he worked enthusiastically at preparing what he’d say that night. And, when he got to the town square that evening, it was just as the night before, a huge crowd had gathered. But, just as he was about to step up to speak, the elder tugged at his sleeve and said: “Someone else will speak tonight, not you.” And it was just as the night before, nobody came late, and nobody left early, and everyone listened intently and engaged the new speaker deep into the night.

But the young man, he felt empty and listened without enthusiasm. And when it was over, he returned to his lodging nursing a dull, bruising frustration. Early the next morning, he packed his few belongings and began to walk out of the town. But then, just at its edge, the elder stopped him and asked: “Why? Why are you leaving us?” The young man replied: “It seems you don’t need me to preach to you—you have others.”

But the elder took him by the sleeve and said to him gently: “Let me give you some counsel. The person who was so full of himself two nights ago and the person who was so empty and discouraged last night—neither of those persons is you. Stay with us a while and let us teach you who you are.”

2.

I’m quite sure this story was never intended as a Christmas story. And I’ll tell you why in just a moment. But tonight this story speaks to me on all kinds of levels—and it’s this last invitation that moves me most. “Stay with us,” the elder said, “and let us teach you who you are.” Now I don’t know about you, but I have so much still to learn about myself, about who I really am. I’m so easily bounced around by successes and failures, by the fickle praise of some and the disapproval of others. I so quickly lose track of the mystery, the spirit, the stuff in the center. I’m like the young preacher in the story: full of myself one day and demoralized the next. Ego, ego, ego.

But who am I, really? I have so much still to learn. I want to know the source. I want to trust my heart. Is there something unshakable, something sacred inside? I want to know who I am.

So when the elder in the story says, “Stay with us and let us teach you who you are,” I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking, ‘Yes, I’ll stay.’ Yes, I want so desperately to learn. Take me to the wise souls who can show me. Take me to the visionaries who already see. I want to know the source. I want to find it inside, inside here.

It might surprise you to know that this old story comes from the great mystical tradition of Islam. Islam. Because Islam means ‘surrender,’ after all. Surrender. In the end, every one of us must yield, surrender – to the truth, to the reality, to the love that is larger than ourselves. It’s just as true, I think, for Christians and Jews, for Buddhists and atheists, as it is for Muslims. And that’s what Islam means: surrender.

But here’s a young preacher – in the story – who’s still hanging on: hanging on to his own needs, hanging on to his own weakness, hanging on to his own press clippings, hanging on to his own mercurial ego.

But maybe, maybe this is his chance. Maybe this time he’ll stay. Maybe this time he’ll stay long enough to surrender that mercurial ego. Maybe these wise elders, steeped in grace, will lead him to a more beautiful truth. A larger truth. His truth. But he’s going to have to surrender. He’s going to have to let everything else go.

3.

Christmas Eve, friends. And this is not the night to count up your successes, and it’s not the night to lick your wounds. You’ve experienced plenty of each, I imagine, plenty of highs and plenty of lows, plenty of thrilling accomplishments and plenty of sad frustrations. But this is not the night for counting or licking. What you are, who you are, has just about nothing to do with your resumé and nothing whatsoever to do with your defeats. It’s Christmas Eve. And this is a night, simply, to receive God’s gift. Life. Your life. This is a night, simply, to receive it. And then, to surrender to it. And then, to start again.

Now no one needs this advice any more than I do. We preachers are legendary in getting too full of ourselves when things go well and in getting bitterly disappointed when they don’t. One Catholic writer calls it “living in the ego-drama.” I’m living in the ego-drama when I’m drawing all this energy from my ego and from the highs and lows my ego experiences every day. I’m a good minister when the reviews are good in the receiving line. I’m a good-for-nothing when no one shows for a class I’ve worked on for weeks. I imagine I’m not the only one. In that ego-drama, we tend to feel pretty good about ourselves when things are hopping and depressed, deflated when they’re not.

But there’s something happening, something happening tonight, that turns all that inside out and sets our hearts freer than we’d ever thought possible. Jesus is born again tonight. In the sacred womb of your soul. Not as some kind of reward for all your successes. And not as some kind of pity on your frustrations. Jesus is born tonight in the sacred womb of your soul—because Jesus chooses to live in you and in me. In our broken hearts. In our messed up relationships. In our noble dreams of peace. In daring acts of kindness. Jesus chooses to live in us. Not out of some kind of maudlin mania. But out of love. And, friends, that makes all kinds of things possible.

Here’s how one theologian, Avery Dulles, puts it: “For the Christian, just as for everyone else, there will be cold, lonely seasons, seasons of sickness, seasons of frustration, and a season within which we will die. Christmas does not give us a ladder to climb out of the human condition. It gives us a drill that lets us burrow into the heart of everything that is and, there, find it shimmering with divinity.” Think about that for a minute. This whole Christmas thing is no magical ladder, no free pass out of life’s hardship and pain. Quite the opposite, actually. Christmas gives us a drill that lets us burrow into the heart of everything—the heart of everything—and find it shimmering with divinity. Shimmering with divinity. This night has nothing at all to do with your accomplishments, nothing at all to do with your failures and shortcomings. Christmas drills into the heart of everything you are—your flesh, your heart, your dreams, your needs, everything—and reveals your life for what it is. A gift. A simple, extraordinary gift.

So just start here. Take a moment right here and say to yourself: “My life is a gift. My life is a shimmering gift.” Go ahead. Do that. “My life is a gift. My life is a shimmering gift.” Turn to the person beside you, and try that out. “My life is a gift. My life is a shimmering gift.” There you said it. So what are you going to do now? With that gift? What are you going to do with the gift of your life?

Because here’s the thing. Tomorrow, when you wake up on Christmas morning, you’ve got an honest-to-God choice. You don’t have to live in that ego-drama any more. Nope. Don’t have to. You can, if you like, choose the ‘theo-drama’ instead. It’s a whole different thing. In a world that shimmers with grace. In this theo-drama, you’re breathing God’s breath, love’s breath. In this theo-drama, God chooses you, God honors the sacred womb in you, God is born again in you. In your frailty and your eccentricity. In your fragmented prayers and unfinished dreams. You don’t have to wait for a good day or a big accomplishment or a compliment in the receiving line. Because who you are, who you will always be—it’s all about God, it’s all about God, it’s all about this wondrous gift of grace and peace and a little baby born in a broken down manger.

So there’s no magical ladder. No magical ladder out of these crazy relationships and Tea Party politics and leaking budgets and aching joints. What there is on Christmas Eve is so much better than a magical ladder. Christmas gives us this drill that lets us burrow into the heart of everything that is—everything that is—and, there, find it shimmering with divinity. That’s what’s waiting for us tomorrow. Under your tree. Under every tree. Amen.

TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES

I've been thinking a lot about Moses this summer, and this bit about burning bushes, and taking off our shoes, and standing on holy ground. Moses was about to be tasked with an enormous responsibility: speaking truth to power, confronting the titans of industry, demanding that Pharaoh let the oppressed go free. But before he could even begin to entertain that call, he had to see what was going on in an ordinary desert shrub. He had to grasp the holiness and wonder and beauty of soil--dust--hillside--wilderness. This strikes me as so, so important for us: that we learn to swoon before creation, to praise the glory and namelessness of the holy, to take off our shoes and love it all. Only then, I think, are we able to contemplate the radically liberating call and the daring project of justice and liberation.

DAVE GRISHAW-JONES

WELCOME to VALLEY RISE UP: a blog exploring faith and wonder, ethics and passion. If you find something helpful here, anything helpful here, I hope you'll take it along and make it work for you. I live and work in Santa Cruz, California, where I'm a pastor and teacher at Peace United Church of Christ. My ministry is fluid and complex: creating spaces for conversation, leading a congregation in worship and prayer, actively pursuing justice in the community and world around me. More than anything else, I see myself as a spiritual guide and mentor for seekers and believers. In a beautiful and befuddling world, faith offers courage, resilience and tenderness. On the side, I love to read and write poetry, and I've written a number of hymns and songs as well. In VALLEY RISE UP, I try to keep the conversation alive, exploring grace, peacemaking, human yearning and hope.

Swords pounded into ploughsharesBombs into bread and wineSwords pounded into ploughsharesBombs into bread and wineSwords pounded into ploughsharesBombs into bread and wineGlobal feast, blessed peace, by & by!

PEACE--SALAAM--SHALOM!

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CORE PRACTICE: PRAYER

"If the inner life is great," said Meister Eckhart 800 years ago, "the outer life will never be puny." Eckhart and others talk about two dimensions in prayer: the horizontal (connecting us in lovingkindness to others) and the vertical (uniting us in love with the Source of all that is and will be). The two intersect in stillness, in reflection, in meditation, in prayer. And this kind of practice is cultivated, tended like a garden, through daily experience and circles of support. There are so many ways into a practice of prayer. For some of us, silence is the key; for others, it's movement, yoga, tai chi, qi gong. The key seems to be discipline, and steady practice. It's a wild and noisy world out there, so find a place and time to step aside and pray. And do it often.

PRAYER, STILLNESS, CONNECTION

PRAY!

THOMAS MERTON'S PRAYER

MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

CORE PRACTICE: AGAPE

Agape is a very particular kind of love, reflected in the stories of Jesus, refracted through his life, his sacrifice, his passion for communion and justice. I like to link agape (a Greek word found in the Christian scriptures) with ahimsa or nonviolence. Like Jesus, Gandhi practiced a rigorous and expansive kind of love. His ahimsa (a Sanskrit word) permeated relationships, family responsibilities, public commitments and his many projects for the betterment and liberation of his people. Like ahimsa, agape has something to do with seeing the other for the unique and precious being she is, without insisting on her conformity or conversion. It involves us in seeking the greatest good, the deepest joy for her. Simply because she is. And like prayer, agape draws energy and staying power from joy, worship, study and friendship.

CHRIST AMONG THE LILIES

By Stanley Spencer

CORE PRACTICE: COMMUNION

When the church remembers Jesus’ passion and reenacts his gracious sacrifice, it invites transformation in each of us. From self-centered living to neighborly love. From narrow-minded concern to cosmic generosity. From numbness to mindfulness. At the table we practice mindfulness, forgiveness and incarnation. The word becomes flesh in us. And we return once again to the image of God. In the beautiful feast of life.

Of course, transformation is also taking place within ‘communing’ communities. Communion calls forth hospitality and courage. Ana María Pineda writes of the early Jesus movement: “The early church, which met in houses, grew up turning hosts into guests and guests into hosts.” More than simple charity, this ongoing practice of hospitality is transformative. When strangers are truly welcomed, a new community emerges, surprising gifts are received; at some point, guests become hosts. Like communion, hospitality isn’t a transaction through which service is rendered and compensation offered. It’s an act of faith whereby relationships are honored, prayers are shared and deep needs are met.

CORE PRACTICE: FORGIVENESS

These are words written by Rowan Williams, once the Archbishop of Canterbury: "So to live a ‘forgiven’ life is not simply to live in a happy consciousness of having been absolved. Forgiveness is precisely the deep and abiding sense of what relation—with God or with other human beings—can and should be; and so it is itself a stimulus, an irritant, necessarily provoking protest at impoverished versions of social and personal relations." Gospel love is so much more than sentiment, so much more than a Hallmark card. It’s a relentless call to reconciliation and peace, even an “irritant” at times. If you’re so much as angry with a sister or brother, if your heart grieves a broken relationship of any kind, there’s work to be done. The kingdom is restless. What God desires is the kind of worship that provokes forgiveness, reconciliation, community. Before you offer that gift at the altar, do a little inventory. Which of your relationships are strained? Is there envy or resentment between you? Has hurt been done? “First be reconciled to your brother or sister,” and consider reconciliation the greatest gift you can offer at the altar of love.